


All Hues

by Ladycat



Series: With Shifting Change [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Genderbending, Girl!Rodney, Porn, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney’s moan is low and broken. “Oh, God you’re good at that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hues

**Author's Note:**

> A missing scene from With Shifting Change.

Rodney keeps glancing at the door. His lips are too full to droop as much as they normally do, but that downward, crooked slant tells the same story.

“She’s with Ronon and Elizabeth, McKay.” Strange how it’s always ‘McKay’ when he’s exasperated. Or annoyed. Or disappointed. Or teasing... so he might use ‘McKay’ and ‘Rodney’ interchangeably. That still beats Rodney, who never uses ‘John’ unless he’s agitated, and then only in private. “She’s getting her hair played with by someone who doesn’t pull it, for once. She’s fine. She’s not going to burst in here. And _he’s_ probably asleep.”

Or making a long-needed move on Elizabeth, but John isn’t thinking about that. He makes it a point not to think about anyone else when there’s someone naked and willing in front of him.

God, Rodney looks good as a woman. Not as thin or toned as many of the marines on base, maybe, but he isn’t flabby or pudgy or any of the things John knows he worries about despite claiming not to. Rodney is _lush_ , with curves that go on forever; pale, touchable skin that is only a little smoother or softer than before; and breasts he complains about constantly, except whenever he catches John staring at them—which he does, almost as much as he stares at Rodney’s ass, with which John has a serious, serious infatuation.

Give him a chance, and Rodney isn’t going to be able to sit down tomorrow because of all the bite-marks.

Then again, that's as true for Rodney as a man as it is for Rodney as a woman.

“Yes, of course,” Rodney says, nervously looking behind him again. “Yes, yes, you’re right. She wouldn’t come here. Ronon can distract her and... ”

Rodney the man is never a prude, but he _is_ remarkably private when it comes to sex. He might want to brag about it—something both of them bite their tongues about—but only the generalities, who he has and how often. Not _how_ , or where, and god, getting him to even contemplate semi-public sex has taken way too many blow-jobs. Most of his current nervousness is easily explainable by virtue that they really do feel like parents, sneaking off to have a quickie while the kids are distracted, and guilty as hell when they finally get a night for themselves: he doesn’t want Teyla to inadvertently walk in on them.

John agrees with that sentiment. Especially since it wouldn’t just be Teyla, but Ronon and Elizabeth trailing behind, too. Actually, it’d be those two at the _least_ ; Teyla has a habit of taking off when something catches her attention, immediately becoming the focus of everyone in the vicinity. There’d been extremely entertaining moments when people would drop everything to follow her, a worried mob that was afraid to get too close, like reverse ducklings.

But that isn’t why Rodney is _this_ nervous.

“We don’t have to do this,” John starts, before a laser-blue glare of hatred and disdain makes him stop. “O-kay. We don’t have to do this _now?”_

“Oh, and what, you feel the need to ‘work me up to it’? Are you going to _coddle_ me and _prepare_ me and be _gentle_ with the scared wittle woman who—mmph! Mmph _mmmph!”_

Rodney has always been a little shorter than John, so that part feels natural enough. So does kissing him to make him calm down. John kisses harder, prying Rodney’s only-mostly resisting mouth open with his tongue, drawing Rodney out while his thumbs rub circles on Rodney’s temples, his hands buried in soft, luxurious hair.

“I never understood why you have longer hair,” John murmurs. Rodney is panting too hard to say anything, body pliant and accepting as it presses up tight against his own; that isn’t different, either. Rodney can out-stubborn a mule, but kiss him and he turns into jell-o every. Single. Time. John once called it his secret weapon out loud—the ultimate Rodney kryptonite—and after _that_ tirade, sticks to calling it that in his head. “The rest of you is identical, only, you know—female. How come your hair grew out?”

“Huh?” Dazed and turned on is a really good look for Rodney, cheeks flushed an appealing pink. “What are... do you have a _thing_ for long hair I don’t know about? Because I haven’t forgiven you for not letting me cut it. And I think Lieutenant Harrison is _still_ laughing her ass off about that, when she isn’t terrified you’ll cut her throat one night.”

“Hey, I never threatened to _hurt_ her.”

“No, you just implied it nicely, and managed to get Ronon to help glower in the background. She doesn’t even look me in the eye in the hallways anymore!” His annoyance doesn’t stop Rodney from tilting his face up, fortunately. One long, wet moment later, full of soft lips that feel different even if they move the same way, Rodney backs off to say, “Hair-thing?”

“Like you don’t have one about mine,” John grumbles. “ _I_ didn’t buy the Just For Men.” The box that sits in John’s bathroom, unopened, because every single time he throws it away, no matter how sneaky he is, it always reappears next to his razor and toothbrush. John suspects Rodney has an accomplice, although he never tries to discover who it is. The possibilities range from utterly terrifying to actually-grey-hair-inducing.

“That was anticipatory,” Rodney splutters, chin abruptly in the air, “and solely because I know how incredibly vain you are! God forbid you actually deal rationally with signs of advancing age and the fact that you can’t appreciate my willingness to help coddle your insecurities only highlights them even more, Colonel.”

“You know,” John says, wrapping his arms around Rodney’s waist to draw him closer. Maybe he _is_ a little shorter like this; John has to actually look down, not just lower his gaze. “That argument might be more effective if you didn’t always sound so shrill.”

Rodney narrows his eyes. “No,” he says through clenched teeth, “I don’t know why my hair is suddenly longer. Neither does Carson or Radek. The only one with a theory is Heightmeyer and why my culturally-based opinions matter when it comes to an _alien transgendering machine_ , I have no idea. I don’t even like long hair on women!”

On women he was attracted to, in a pathetically beard-like way? No, John knows that; he’s heard the Ode to Sam Carter often enough. But on what Rodney bases his concept of femininity and what he excepts women to look like? That’s an entirely different story. John wonders, idly, whether Rodney’s mother had long hair or not. Jeannie certainly does—about the length Rodney’s is now, actually.

John runs his fingers through the curls, marveling at the softness. Rodney always has soft hair, a by-product of the gentle shampoo he uses, but it’s even softer now, silken and begging for John to pet and toy with as much as he can. The curls spring back into place when he pulls and releases them. “You a little calmer now?”

Rodney looked mulish, but he nods nonetheless. “You are an inconsiderate jackass who is treating me like a woman, and no, I don’t need the rejoinder I can see behind your teeth, thanks. I’m... I’m aware. And yes. I’m calmer. Damn you.”

John nods, not saying anything. Rodney has always been hyper, has always tended to rant rather than respond more neutrally, but he’s starting to fly off the handle even more than previously. A few times, most recently, his reactions can even be termed hormonal, and neither of them want to contemplate what that might mean. Ever. “A couple more days, Rodney. That’s it.”

“It better be,” he says petulantly, leaning his head on John’s shoulder. He doesn’t object when John continues playing with his hair, one arm snug around his back, just sighs and snuggles a little closer. “I still want to do this.”

So he still remembers what their initial plan was? Good. Smirking—safe, because Rodney can’t see him without lifting his head—John lets his hand slide down Rodney’s naked arm to his side, knuckles grazing the slight indentation of his ribs and waist before following the gentle swell and curve of his stomach, fingers coming to rest against the barest beginnings of wetness. John strokes, easily accepting Rodney’s weight as he creates more room for his hand and arm, thumb moving in slow, familiar circles.

Rodney’s moan is low and broken. “Oh, God you’re good at that.”

“I was good at jerking you off, too.”

“Irrelevant. Every guy jerks off; it’s just a question of compensating for the different angle.”

His finger delicately slips between two slippery folds, John mouthing his way over Rodney’s face. He misses the stubble. “I was good at blow-jobs too, McKay, and don’t tell me that’s all about _angle_.”

“I don’t—mm!—um. Know. You could be that flexible.”

Didn’t he wish, and frequently, as a boy. Not bothering to answer, John kisses Rodney wet and dirty, matching the rhythm of his fingers as he plays Rodney as expertly as he _always_ plays Rodney, taking advantage of the squeaks and sighs and tangled words, the face that never holds any secrets except the ones John doesn’t want the answers for, anyway.

He loves doing this to Rodney. He loves the way Rodney goes boneless, his forehead a hard, heavy curl on John’s shoulder, breath dampening his skin or shirt, whichever is closest, while John tugs and strokes and fondles, murmuring quiet encouragements. Rodney always clutches at John’s chest and hips, latching on almost desperately, while he’s dragged along at whatever pace John sets, letting himself be handled.

The parts don’t matter. Having Rodney leaning so heavily against him, trusting John for support and pleasure both—that matters a lot.

“First one,” John says, lipping over the heated skin of his neck, the cool, rigid cartilage of his ear. “Come on, Rodney, let me have it. It’s okay, it’s okay.” The litany is familiar, almost ritualistic, because Rodney always, _always_ chokes on nothing when he’s close, struggling involuntarily if he’s held tightly enough, which he prefers. “That’s it, Rodney. Give it, come on.”

Panting fast and breathless, high-pitched enough to be disconcertingly wrong, Rodney shudders around John’s first and middle fingers, grinding desperately against the heel of John’s wet, sticky hand. “Oh,” he says, biting down on John’s shoulder, fingers clutching spasmodically. He still isn’t comfortable with a woman’s orgasm, which he says is ‘different’ without going into what those differences are. “Oh, oh, _oh.”_

John holds him, fingers still moving, coaxing out another set of shudders and _oh oh oh_ s before Rodney goes completely limp against him. “Much better, right?”

Rodney rouses himself enough to roll one eye up at John. “Let me guess—you’re one of those smug bastards who enjoys getting a woman off as many times as he can.”

“Uh huh. You telling me you _weren’t_?”

Rodney is too lax to look smug, but he tries. “My record was twenty four. She slept for an entire day afterwards and told me she was sore for at least a week.”

No way is John saying what his total is. Rodney would never believe him anyway. “So, what, you’ve been holding out on me?”

“Asshole. Mm. You know, I might actually miss the multiple-orgasm-thing.”

And if he’s going to say things like that, John will forgive him the bragging; he knows how hard it is to trigger those for most women, and even if they haven’t practiced a lot with this newer form, Rodney is still _Rodney_ : he’s never been hair-triggered in his life.

“You know.” Rodney kisses John’s collarbone and neck, biting his chin lightly enough that there won’t be a lingering mark, but John will still feel it. “This wasn’t actually supposed to be about you indulging your fingering-kink.”

Both John’s eyebrows go up. “You’re objecting to getting off?” And he doesn’t have a fingering-kink. He just likes feeling his partners come undone against him; that isn’t so bad, is it?

“No, just getting this show on the road,” Rodney snaps. He pushes, sending John sprawling onto the bed. After repeated attempts in front of the mirror, something the three of them have fortunately witnessed and are _never ever_ telling Rodney, he’s mastered the art of crossing his arms without disturbing his often-sore breasts, and he does so now. “Hm.”

Hm? John isn’t above being shameless, and he feels almost giddy tonight. Radek is certain everything would work, a certainty John trusts a lot more than Rodney’s often-breezy assurances that of _course_ it will work, sort of, well, give it twenty percent. Ronon knows exactly why he isn’t to interrupt even if no one else does, and Rodney is standing there thoroughly naked with his thighs wet and shiny, expression still a little fuzzed-out and languid, all because of what John has done to him.

He deserves to feel a little giddy.

Posing with one arm tucked behind his head, John bends one knee, foot flat against the other so that his cock and his ass are exposed at the same time. Arching just the tiniest bit, the better to show off, John slowly adopts his most come-hither expression.

Rodney bursts out laughing.

“I can’t decide,” he says between giggles, “if you want me to fuck you, or give you the Heimlich maneuver.”

His leg drops back onto the bed. “McKay!”

“No, no, really! You looked like you’d swallowed something!” 

Still giggling—and John is going to tell Rodney that it isn’t even close to a manly chuckle, once he recovers his wounded dignity—Rodney picks up a clear plastic bag and suddenly John isn’t feeling offended anymore. He watches, breathless, while Rodney takes the dildo out of the bag. Watching Rodney has always been one of John’s kinks. He isn’t ashamed to admit it—Rodney has fantastic hands, big and blunt and deft, and he loves to touch things, especially sexual things. Sometimes John gives him new toys just to watch him hold them in his hands, examining every part, almost caressing as he discovers what this new object might offer, Braille beneath knowing, talented fingers.

That his hands are thinner now, more curved at the tip of his fingers, the knuckles not quite as thick or gnarled, means nothing. They still make John hard every time.

The dildo is a dull, flesh-like color, lifeless and almost grey against the living touch of Rodney’s skin. John doesn’t watch that, instead concentrating on the precise way Rodney examines the dildo, handling it the way he handles John’s cock: the flick of his nails against the rounded head, the twist against the shaft, palm broad and flat and usually damp with sweat and lube, hard from more work than a body-builder’s ever seen, and the considering bounce of balls that would never move or give.

“Yeah,” John says, licking his lips.

“Hmph,” is Rodney’s response, but John knows how much Rodney likes being watched. He’s an artist, a showman; danger only makes his performance even greater, a rabbit pulled white and fluffy from a hat made of sharpened teeth. “Is this what you want so much?”

John raises an eyebrow. “No,” he drawls. His throat is tight with want, voice sex-raspy to his own ears. “No, McKay, it’s _not_ what I want ‘so much.’ Stop fishing.”

“I am not fishing! I am asking a perfectly legitimate question, because you look like you’re about to _drool_ , just because I’m fondling a damned dildo and—”

John lunges to his knees, hands on Rodney’s shoulders as he kisses that soft, wide mouth. Rodney goes with it, still muffling words against John’s tongue. John retaliates with a soft bite to his lower lip, sucking where he’s nipped; he really likes the tiny, pained noise Rodney makes whenever he does that. “ _Yes,_ Rodney, I’m reacting like that because you’re fondling a _dildo._ ”

“What? What does that have to do with anything?”

John kisses him again. “For a brilliant man, you’re kinda stupid. Do you really think I want toys over the real thing?”

The lightbulb finally goes off. Rodney flushes, something he does easily now, and hates with a passion. John thinks it’s cute, as does almost everyone else, but here in his room with Rodney panting against mouth, body warm and pliant and willing even if his mind is still two gears behind—it’s not cute. It’s _hot_.

“Oh. That’s. Really?” Rodney asks.

“Fishing, McKay.”

“Well, I can’t help it if I require actual verbalization, and you’re still stuck in a silent movie. You’re not the easiest person to read, sometimes!” Grumbling has never stopped Rodney from doing things. Now is no different: still berating John, Rodney unspools the complicated lattice of black straps—made of a soft, stretchy material guaranteed to be comfortable—that he slides up his legs and around his waist, tightening them securely, like this is something familiar, practiced, and not actually brand new to both of them.

“—oh,” Rodney abruptly finishes. He looks at himself, pale skin ethereal against the inky-dark straps, the dildo hanging obscenely from between his legs, flush against honey-red curls.

John makes a wordless noise of agreement.

“Uh. Yes?”

“What have I said about fishing, McKay,” John rasps, but he’s already lowering himself, stretching forward so he can mouth across Rodney’s hips and thighs. Rodney’s release is salty-sweet, different and not, as he licks over the straps—bitter and fabric-y, but perfect because it makes Rodney gasp—busily parting damp, trailing curls to taste the swollen heat within. Above him, Rodney is moaning, breasts shuddering as his chest heaves up and down, and John can’t stop. He licks messy and wet all around the base of the dildo, squashed tightly against Rodney’s clit, then up the shaft, the awful taste of plastic only barely noticed with the heat of _Rodney_ still on his tongue. He swirls around the head, thinking _Rodney, Rodney, Rodney_ , even if it doesn’t feel or taste or act like him.

It’s close enough to keep him going until it’s a real cock he’s sucking.

Rodney’s hands are clutching over top of John’s, helping him leave bruises. “Oh,” he says again. “Oh, _oh_ , God, you like that? Because that’s really, really hot. Jesus, John, you’re blowing a fake cock.”

“Your fake cock,” John says, childishly grinning as he leans back down to kiss the swell of Rodney’s pussy. “How do you want me?”

“Huh?” Rodney’s too busy running his hands up the length of John’s arms, cupping his neck and pulling him down for a long, luxurious suck. “Oh, God, I know what that feels like,” Rodney babbles, eyes fixed on John’s movements. “I _remember_... ”

John knows he’s not intuitive, but certain things come red-flagged enough for even him to notice. He goes back up on his knees, body pressing tight to Rodney’s so that their cocks—and that’s a disturbing thought—rub up against each other while he kisses Rodney back into a better frame of mind. “How do you want me, Rodney?”

Rodney looks down at where their bodies meet, red twisted up against lifeless pink. “Does that feel good?” He moves his hips, experimentally. “Like actual frottage? Also, this thing where you kiss me quiet? Is getting old.”

It feels okay, not as good as real frottage, but Rodney’s belly is soft and giving and John knows better than to tell him _that’s_ the reason John likes it. Instead, he slides his arms around Rodney’s back, stroking along the length of his spine, the curves of his ass, and then back up again. Rodney feels good like this, he always, always has. “How do you want me?” he asks a third time. “On my stomach? My back? Want my legs on your shoulders while you fuck me?”

Inhaling sharply, Rodney steps back and away. His hand fumbles for the dildo, pressing it hard against himself—and then jumps with a strangled scream. “Oh, my _god!”_

John knows damned well that his grin is slow, lazy, and insufferably smug. He’s practiced it. “Oh, yeah. Did I mention it vibrates?”

“No! No, you did not mention it vibrates! That was a very important feature that you absolutely did not tell me about!”

The frown is difficult to keep, since Rodney’s hopping a little as he finds the controls—a series of softer places to press—and starts fiddling with speed and type, whimpering in the back of his throat at each new combination. John perseveres. “McKay. Would I buy you a toy that’s _just_ for me? Hm?”

“Oh, you would, you smug bastard.” Rodney tackles him, rubbing the fake, vibrating dildo all over John’s belly and cock as they wrestle. It’s not as energetic as some of their matches have been—John instinctively holds himself back, forgetting that Rodney’s only a little bit weaker in the shoulder and far more powerful in the leg. Strength’s not the issue, though, and as they dissolve into frantic, hungry kissing he forgets whatever that might be.

“Back,” Rodney gasps, grinding himself against John. “I want to see your back. H-hands and knees, God, _please_.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, okay—lube, where’s the—”

“Got it!” Triumphantly waving the bottle, Rodney almost cracks it in his haste to get the top open. “Stupid—what, do they make these sex-proof on purpose?”

Jesus Christ, if Rodney doesn’t hurry up, John’s just going to sit on the damned thing and not worry about lube. Yeah, it’s been longer than he prefers since the last time, but he _wants_. He can handle a little pain if it means he gets Rodney inside him faster.

Some of that must show on his face, because Rodney goes utterly still. “Hands and knees, John,” he says. “Now.”

It’s not the whip-crack tone that John always obeys, the one that means _we’re screwed, we’re utterly screwed, we have to get out of here now_ ; this is a sex tone, almost gentle or _benevolent_ , and John responds to it exactly the same way. Scrambling into position, he digs his fingers into the sheets. The cotton fibers press back into his skin, tiny pin-pricks of pain. That helps focus him, but it still takes almost all his remaining willpower not to turn around to look. 

Rodney knows, of course. It’s why he slaps John’s ass, well aware that the burst of sharp, tingling heat is all that will keep John still. Shivering and desperate and almost light-headed, but still.

“Hurry,” John grits out. He doesn’t try to mask his urgency; Rodney always works better with motivation.

The only response is the incredibly unsexy _squeege_ of the bottle being used. Normally that’s enough for Rodney to start ranting—it happens every time—but not now. Now it’s just fingers, slender and talented, slippery-cold as they press inside of him. John gasps, forcing his back to relax, muscles to open easily. It’s been a _while_.

Too long.

“Relax,” Rodney says, impatient. “If you don’t relax, I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can, you can do anything, just get _on_ with it.” John doesn’t realize what he’s said until he hears Rodney’s surprised chuckle, and even then doesn’t care. He talks during sex—really, really good sex, anyway—and if Rodney’s not used to it by now, he should be.

“And people say _I’m_ the greedy one.”

There’s a retort somewhere, but John can’t find it. He can’t find anything but the mattress, lumpy against his palms as he grips even harder. Rodney’s fully inside him now, two fingers that stretch and twist, working through familiar patterns. Some of the dexterity is lost with the addition of a third finger, but John’s not complaining. The thickness is better, stretching him until it burns white and frothing behind his eyes, and Rodney got his thumb hard behind John’s balls, his newer, longer nail—they grow faster than before, and are surprisingly useful for smaller, delicate work so he keeps them—digging a crescent of blinding pleasure.

Dropping kisses along his back, Rodney says, “You’ll have to—you have to talk, okay? You have to tell me if it’s, if it doesn’t work, or I’m—I won’t be able to feel it, and—”

John makes a ragged, broken sound in lieu of words he can’t find.

“Yes, yes, okay,” Rodney says, in that _oh, right, sorry_ pitch that makes John squirm. “Okay.”

There’s another horrible sound of more lube squeezed out, then a choked off cry—Rodney’s playing with the vibration settings, John guesses, because in the next second, there’s finally, _finally_ something blunt and cold and hard and _wrong_ no matter how much it mimics what’s right, pushing against his body. It takes Rodney three tries to find the right angle, and by then John’s almost torn through the sheets in furious desperation.

“There,” Rodney pants, running a hand up John’s back, the other holding the toy steady as he presses slowly inside. His fingers are hot, too hot, in contrast to cool silicone, against John’s ass and inner thigh. “There, that’s it, right? Oh, god, tell me that’s it because you look so good like this, better than porn, the way you just _take_ it—”

“Yes,” John hisses, rocking back, “it’s fine, come _on_ , Rodney!”

“Well, let me just get the angle,” he fusses, shifting until his thighs are tucked up against John’s and then, oh _there_. “Got it,” Rodney says smugly.

John has exactly half a second to come up with some kind of threat—that dissolve harmlessly on his tongue. Rodney’s _moving_ , slow, steady thrusts that are more of a tease than anything lingering might be. The dildo isn’t nearly as good as Rodney’s cock. They both know that, Rodney muttering about control as he readjusts every couple of minutes, but it’s not bad. If anything, it’s _good_ , thick and solid within him, buzzing so that both of them are gasping and hungry for more—Rodney adds a shimmy to the end of each thrust, grinding himself into the vibrating dildo. It’s just... different.

John moans, biting the sheet and wishing desperately he could see the way Rodney’s body shudders with each thrust forward, breasts swaying, nipples hard and pointed, begging to be touched, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he _concentrates_ —but at the same time, John’s glad he can’t. This isn’t about sharing something that’s familiar and necessary for both of them. Watching Rodney would make him uncomfortable, too-aware of features he doesn’t want to keep, the fake toy that’s moving faster and harder into John’s body.

Besides. He knows Rodney loves to watch his back, the play of muscles under his skin as his shoulders flex, hips rolling eagerly.

“Yeah?” Rodney gasps. “Please, please tell me it’s okay, but this is—oh, oh, so _good.”_

“S’okay.” John’s slurring, mouth full of cotton. He’ll never tell Rodney that it is just okay—enjoyable and very much missed after a sudden, enforced break from months of regular sex. But it’s not Rodney. Not really. And John’s not surprised at all to find that makes a difference. “Mmph!”

Rodney’s smug little hum at finally getting John’s prostate only makes it better.

John wants to swear, to growl out an order because if not, he’s pretty sure he’s going to start begging. Fortunately, Rodney knows that and ups his speed, his smaller, more delicate hand wrapping around John’s cock. He can tell it’s a strain—Rodney’s arms aren’t as long—from the choked off moans of effort and oh, god, that’s so hot. Rodney straining around him, breasts pressed up against his back, still moving and moving within him and John has to bite his own wristband, twisting the fabric between his teeth as he comes hard enough to see stars.

Rodney keeps going a few minutes more, then slows and stops. He’s panting, sweat sliding between their bodies, trembling slightly with effort. Still dazed, John makes himself widen his legs a touch, arching so that he’s supporting more of Rodney’s weight. It’s not something he can do normally, but with Rodney not quite as heavy it feels like the good kind of strain, stretching loose, lax muscles that still spark occasionally.

“Mm,” Rodney says into his shoulder. “Moving. ’m moving.”

His palms feel abraded, every joint from hand to shoulder aching faintly. Another few seconds and he’s going to collapse face down into the bed, Rodney still on his back—and he’s honestly not sure if that’s a bad thing or not.

Pulling out is an experience John can do without repeating. There’s a big difference between allowing something a lot smaller and softer to glide against overly-sensitive skin than a dildo, which doesn’t shrink after orgasm.

Empty, finally, and annoyed with it, John twists around so that he’s on his back, Rodney still kneeling between his legs. He’s glowing with sweat, light refracting with crazy, color-glazed wheels that are probably due more to John’s state of being than reality. “Hi,” he says. “C’mere.”

Rodney ignores him in favor of fussing with the straps. The dildo is still buzzing away, audible even over their panting, glistening against Rodney’s skin. It looks perverse and very, very hot.

“Rodney, stop fiddling with that and just come _here_.”

“Yes, yes, in a minute, I need to—”

Figures. Rodney never does what he’s told, even when it’s good for him. Grabbing his hips, John yanks until Rodney’s straddling his torso, dildo dragging uncomfortably against his skin. There’s a little too much constriction on his chest—although having Rodney’s ass there is a very nice feeling—but he ignores that in favor of undoing the straps, letting the whole contraption puddle onto him. “Calm down,” he says, anticipating Rodney’s grumpy look. “I’m not going to sleep yet.”

“Which I completely believe, because you _always_ go to sleep after I fuck you.” Rodney rubs at his thigh, squirming. “Actually, you don’t exactly fall asleep so much as pass out, and—hey!”

Another jerk and Rodney’s on his back, John slithering downward so his mouth is level with Rodney’s groin. The skin is red from where the straps rubbed; John kisses each mark, licking over the darkest and most swollen. “I’ll make you a deal,” he says, breathing open-mouthed against soft, delicate folds. “Wear your hair down when we go through the gate.”

Sticky fingers are already working into John’s hair, tugging with unconscious insistence. It’s no surprise at all that Rodney needs this. “Why would I do that? It’s just hair.”

“Wear it down,” John says winningly, licking skin that gives sweetly under his tongue, “and I’ll go down on you.”

Rodney stills. “And if I don’t?”

John lets his chin rest against Rodney’s skin. It’s sticky, and damp, but John’s never been particularly clean when going down on a woman, so he doesn’t mind. Besides, it smells _good_. Not as good as Rodney’s come, the metallic-salt that John is very fond of, but still good. “If you say no, I’ll only finger you off.”

Rodney’s chin goes back, eyes flickering back and forth as he thinks. “So, either way I get off, right?”

Now is not the time to say ‘duh’. John knows this. He still has to bite his cheek, swallowing back the complaint that Rodney only gets treated differently when he _acts_ differently. “Yeah.” _Of course._

“Then I’m not really seeing a benefit to the first.” That’s a blatant lie as Rodney’s legs inch wider, exposing himself to John.

“No benefit?” Oops. Repositioning himself with only his nose still visible, John says again, muffled, “No benefit?”

Rodney shivers. Hard. “Okay,” he says, voice breathless and high, “maybe some benefit.”

Half-way there, John thinks, and busies himself in re-translating all the things he knows Rodney loves onto an altered landscape. They’ve done this a couple times, and John’s unsurprised to find most of his tricks are still effective against hot, silken folds of skin instead of the hard length of Rodney’s shaft, or a fluttering entrance that reacts virtually the same as when he rims Rodney. Above him, Rodney whimpers, head falling back with a soft thump, while one hand tweaks and tugs on a nipple.

John bats his hand away and takes over. “Wear it down when we go back. Just the once, Rodney, come on.”

“Fine!” he says, voice cracking into a painfully high range. “Yes, fine, okay, I’ll do it _right_ before we go through the gate, now _please_ , will you just get on with it!”

Grinning, John slides his arms underneath Rodney’s body, and buries his face between his legs. 

* * * 

Rodney’s heart thunders against his ribs, lungs pumping so hard that at least half a dozen different conditions come flooding through his mind. It’s easy to dismiss them, though, looking down at his happily _flat_ and _hairy_ chest. He wants to touch it again, just to check, but John’s started giving him deeply weird looks when he does so he refrains.

At least until he’s in private.

John’s legs are still pulled back, making him look oddly beetle-like as he too pants, expression vacant and just the slightest bit amazed as he gulps air. “Uh.”

“Mm,” Rodney agrees, tracing a finger—blunt! Square-tipped! Big!—up John’s inner thigh before pushing first one, than the other leg back to the bed. “Better?”

John hasn’t moved yet. “If I say yes, you’re gonna be even more insufferable.”

“Because I made you put your legs down?”

He’s earned that swat and laughs into it, burying the sound in John’s shoulder. He still can’t breathe properly, but he’s determinedly not worrying about potentially over-working his newly returned body. It can handle really good sex. It has for some time, now, and even if that had been _exceptionally_ good sex, Rodney has faith in himself to surpass any necessary repercussions.

Well. Except one.

Staring mournfully down his body—well, not _really_ mournfully because it’s _his_ body, the slight paunch he refuses to acknowledge not hiding that he has a cock again—Rodney sighs. “I was going to ask you to blow me.”

“Uh.” Moving himself one limb at a time, John slides and slithers and ends up draping himself over Rodney’s body. “Mm. Much better.”

“Oh?”

“Too small b’fore.”

Chuckling, Rodney runs a hand through John’s hair, then down his back to trace fractal patterns on the whorls of his skin. “Well, I wasn’t that much smaller.”

“No shoulders.”

“Yes, but I had breasts.”

John somehow finds the manly strength to lift his head the tiniest bit so he can glare. It’s clearly an effort, though, and one he doesn’t seem to be enjoying. “No _shoulders_ ,” John repeats.

“Right, right.” Patting John back down onto his shoulder, Rodney again contemplates the realities of being male. “I miss having no refractory time.”

John makes a pained noise. “I really, really don’t.”

Rodney laughs, but doesn’t respond. John’s already asleep—passed out—an arm and leg flung possessively over Rodney’s body, face mashed so tightly into Rodney’s neck that it’s impossible to tell whose stubble is whose and really, Rodney doesn’t actually miss a thing.

There’s nothing different to miss.


End file.
